1776
by dicaeopolis
Summary: The petitions and other documents, begging the king for peace and reunion. King George III had spat on each and every one of them. England had flinched infinitesimally each and every time. Revolutionary War-era USUK.


**a/n: apparently this was how i studied for apush tests in 2013**

England was tired, frustrated, and entirely not in the mood to deal with America.

His head ached all the time these days. France, Spain, the Netherlands – he could see their leers in his mind's eye, taunting him for his unruly colony. Canada never gave me this sort of trouble, France might snicker, and only laugh that maddening laugh of his when England tartly reminded him why Canada – or anywhere in North America, for that matter – wasn't French territory anymore. He didn't even know why he'd made the trip – it wasn't as though he had nothing to deal with at home; on the contrary, babysitting George III was a full-time occupation on its own.

He'd made some halfhearted excuse about fighting alongside his troops. George let him go, but nobody was fooled.

But the stiffness of America's shoulders told him without a word that it was in vain.

The colony stood at the back of the parlor, staring out the large window into the long shadows of late afternoon. He was home so rarely these days, and when he was, it ended in yelling. Sometimes it even started that way.

England slumped against the doorframe, eyes on the back of the blue coat. That wasn't English cloth, he realized. Homespun by the Daughters of Liberty, determined to continue boycotting their motherland's goods.

It was all so foolish. They were both British, after all. Colonial duties were still much kinder than those at home. America had never been to London, England remembered. Perhaps if he had seen the conditions that England's own people lived in, he might be less selfish today.

America turned to face him, and there was no fondness or familiarity in his icy blue eyes. The big house where his giggles had echoed as a child was thickly silent.

"I have a document for you."

The Declaration of Independence was nothing unexpected. England took the scroll, skimmed it briefly. John Locke and Thomas Paine had written more of it than Thomas Jefferson. He placed it in his coat pocket.

"This isn't necessary."

America's jaw tightened.

"My people," he said, slowly, deliberately, "gave you everything. We opened our homes. We sent soldiers and food. My general, Virginia's pride, had two horses shot out from under him. For your war. And you repaid us with a slap in the face."

Even as England's headache worsened, his heart ached with pride. America had grown tall and strong and powerful and independent, fiercely patriotic and relentlessly courageous. Farmers, he had. Most of them only militia, without even uniforms, few of them even knowing how to operate a gun. And they faced the sleekly supplied and exhaustively trained British army, the terror of land and sea. They trembled and flinched, but they stood their ground.

But it didn't need to happen this way.

America was gaining speed now. "You closed Boston – you of all people, England, you should know why we need Boston–"

"I read your declaration–"

"All the duties–"

"We gave you a chance to come up with alternatives–"

"No representation in Parliament–"

"You'll get respect when you take some damn responsibility for once! We doubled our debt to protect you, and you've started this ridiculousness rather than lifting a finger to help pay it off–"

"Massachusetts was nearly bankrupted for your fight–"

"Stop wallowing! I heard my commanders' reports, you were far wealthier than you let on–"

"Your commanders never set foot on Massachusetts soil in their life–"

"You've never left your country! You think taxes are bad here–"

"The tea–"

"We were reducing prices for you–"

"And how long until more followed? Monopolies, complete economic control, a nation taxed into bankruptcy?"

"The – the money shouldn't matter! Not between countrymen!" England's hands balled into fists. "Have you forgotten where you came from," he half-shouted, inches from America's face, mood worsened by the realization of how much taller his colony had grown than him.

There was a flash of something that wasn't anger in America's blue eyes.

"No," he said simply, and it hit England worse than a punch, knocking him back a few steps.

The petitions and other documents, begging the king for peace and reunion. King George III had spat on each and every one of them. England had flinched infinitesimally each time.  
His chest throbbed each time the merchants in Parliament called for compromise – they desperate to keep their trading partners, he desperate for another reason. Grenville and George III, each other's yes-men, nodding as the other spoke of subjugating the unruly Americans. There had been scattered snickers in Parliament and glances in his direction – it was common knowledge what "subjugation" meant; England hadn't been too subtle about what had happened to Spain, half a century ago. But that situation was so far opposite from this one that it was unthinkable to compare the two.

Were the Americans really analogous to the Spanish in British eyes by now? Yes, he could answer himself – where America was concerned, it was easy to forget that he was not human, but there was always the turmoil within, hundreds of thousands of people arguing and thinking and living, and England could feel, unmistakable, the hostility and disdain that his people felt towards the colonies they did not know.

But how could he manage to forget that it was a civil war twice over for America?

England sat heavily on the sofa. America's eyes followed him, still hard and unyielding.

"Someday," England began, voice cracking. "When all this…" He waved a tired hand. "When all this is over–"

"I know."

Neither had faltered in his resolve as America walked out the door for the last time.

But somewhere in there, there was a promise.


End file.
